


The Road to Erebor

by Trixylune



Category: The Hobbit (Jackson Movies), The Hobbit - All Media Types, The Hobbit - J. R. R. Tolkien, The Road - Cormac McCarthy
Genre: Alternate Universe - Apocalypse, Crossover, M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-08-16
Updated: 2014-08-16
Packaged: 2018-02-13 08:44:49
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,679
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/2144358
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Trixylune/pseuds/Trixylune
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>First Fill for the Hobbit Kink Meme Origami Fill-a-thon! Went for 1. Hurt/Comfort 2. None 3. Adoption/Injury 4. The Hobbit 5. Bilbo and the Durins 6. Baggenshield<br/>My assigned prompt goes as so:<br/>Bilbo/Thorin, The Road AU: I want an AU with Bilbo traveling the wasteland of a decimated Middle Earth(or modern AU if you'd like) with a young Frodo, fighting each day to find shelter and enough food to survive. They spend years struggling on by when they're discovered by a vicious hunting party and Bilbo is left wounded, barely clinging to life. Frodo's screams give enough strength to fight back against what he presumes is a cannibalistic hunter but not quite enough and he faints.</p><p>Turns out the hunting party was being tracked by another group of hunters, good guys, who are determined to push those who would prey on others out of their borders.</p><p>+100 Bilbo comes to ready to fight and can only be subdued by his frail and malnourished nephew<br/>+1000 Frodo has never seen other children but instantly bonds with the ones that are there<br/>+10,000 Thorin has instant respect for Bilbo for how he's fought so hard to keep Frodo safe</p><p>The more angst the better but a little spark of happiness would be nice!</p>
            </blockquote>





	The Road to Erebor

**Author's Note:**

> I don't know how much this fills what they want, but I hope the OP is pleased. : ) Also, do not own, blah blah blah.  
> Also I've never read or watched The Road, excepting one five minute clip seen accidentally when I walked in while my dad was watching it, so all knowledge of the plot line comes from wikipedia.  
> And this whole fic is unedited and unbetaed.

The Shire hardly noticed when the elves left Middle Earth. It didn’t affect their small piece of earth, so it didn’t make its way to any consideration. The only hobbit to spare it half a thought was Bilbo Baggins, who had returned from his adventure to find his orphaned nephew practically waiting on his doorstep and had barely half a thought to spare for the loss of his elven acquaintances. The hobbits, secluded as they were, therefore heard no news of the tower raising in the south, the monsters that poured from the mountains. They heard naught of the men, driven to the battlefield, slaughtering even as they themselves were cut down, until the fields were filled with nothing but corpses. They heard naught of the families starving as they headed north, trying to avoid the possible next wave of attack. 

They only took note when the first of the Men to arrive, desperate and starving, raided the Cotton’s farmhouse. The whole family was discovered dead, and their tiny daughter missing. Her bones were found, cooked and cleaned, the next morning in the remains of a firepit. The Shire preceded to panic, just in time for the rest of the refugees to come pouring in. The fields were razed, with people cut down while trying to gather corn and wheat and tomatoes to feed themselves. The hobbits, faced with a horror they’d never before faced, fell back into their only defense mechanism. They retreated into their holes, and blockaded the doors and windows. Locked below ground, they heard feet pass overhead, angry shouts and the cries of the injured and dying. Many smials were dug into, the terrified families dragged away, the remains of their pantries emptied, and the smell of cooking meat filtering through the doorways later that night. 

Winter seemed like a godsend for once in their existence. The snow masked the hobbit smials from any other hill, and Bilbo, like many other families, hunkered down, hoping that what the snow didn’t kill, the wolves would. Baby Frodo cried constantly, so Bilbo was forced to hide him away in the deepest celler, trying to prevent his cries from filtering through the earth to the fresh air, attracting predators their way. Bag End was dark and silent except for his muffled screams, and Bilbo despaired.

He was able to feed Frodo from his stock of canned and jarred goods. Jam wasn’t the healthiest for an infant, but it was better than some of the alternatives. Mashed carrots and pickles became a staple food, and Bilbo quickly relearned to ration his food. His thoughts sometimes drifted to his fellow hobbits, none of whom he’d seen for going on four turns of the moon now, and he mourned, knowing that somewhere out there, many families who had not had three large pantries to turn too were starving to death. It came to a point where he hoped they had reached the release of suicide, rather than suffer to death, or worse, resort to means as bad as that of the monsters outside.

More happened that winter that the declining population of hobbits never heard about. A group of remaining elves, dwarves, and men raided the southern countries, fighting their way through their own people to reach the flaming tower. Eventually, the tower fell. The whole country of monsters fell with it. Mordor was no more. Slightly to the north, a white tower rose, and new, stronger monsters spread from its peak. Another wizard, supported by walking trees, invaded its walls, and the tower fell. The wizard fell with it. The trees either burned or retreated. 

That hobbits didn’t know that that winter spent underground, the cold killed as many of the remaining creatures as their fellows did. They didn’t know that the shakes from the fallen tower disturbed the quiescent volcano, which months later erupted with a blast that shook as far north as Moria, collapsing the mines upon the goblins, orcs, and the few maniacal dwarves that managed to survive in the savage underworld of the butchered mine. The ashes covered the sky all the way up to the Ettenmoors, and blotted out every inch of sunlight. What did make it through was murky and grey, and not enough to allow a weed to thrive. They didn’t know that when spring came, it brought only bodies and bones. They continued to hide in their holes, to scared of the possibility of discovery to risk venturing out, and slowly they starved.

In April, Bilbo scraped open his last can. He carefully fed as much of it to nearly two year old Frodo as he could, then he packed up his bag, grabbed Sting, slung his nephew across his back, and swung open the door to Bag End.

***

The next three years were spent smial hopping. If one avoided looking at the bodies, it was alright. They ate what food was left, and then moved on. Bilbo kept a careful tally of the dead in his book, dreams of writing the tale of his adventure dashed and instead replaced with the careful chronicling of the loss of his people. Tuckborough lasted them the longest, but after its store ran out and they ventured to Brandy Hall, Bilbo was forced to acknowledge that he and Frodo may be some of the only hobbits left. He carefully ignored the scorch marks on some of the floors, as well as the smell of scorched meat that seemed to be embedded in the very walls. The torture of starvation would lead people to options they otherwise wouldn’t consider. Butchery was a familiar concept after all, and after a while of suffering, every taboo could be broken. Bilbo simply clutched Frodo tighter, and moved on.

***

Frodo was walking now, and Bilbo had to keep a tight hold on him to keep him from disappearing. His nephew had grown into a quiet child, all dark curls and big blue eyes, thinner than a hobbit should be and constantly found sucking on his fist to curb his hunger. Bilbo himself had lost all of the pudge that had persisted even through his journey to Erebor. He felt less and less like a hobbit every day. They continued on.

***

When Frodo turned five, Bilbo lead them out of the Shire. He had half a thought of finding Rivendell, a small, untarnished part of him convinced that none of the bloodshed could have touched such peaceful halls. They encountered several roaming troops of dwarves and men as they travelled, and learned very quickly to hide. The first group only robbed them of what wild vegetables Bilbo had managed to collect. The second took them prisoner, and Bilbo was forced to use his ring. Invisibility let him slip through the camp that night, and Sting silenced any chance of a threat. Poor Frodo woke the next morning, tear tracks wiped away while he slept, exhausted, to find his uncle carrying him eastward, eyes dead and sword stinking strongly of iron. The third group put on a façade of kindness, and Bilbo woke to find a sword buried in his pillow, only missing his head because he habitually rolled to the right to check on Frodo. His elvish letter opener once again saved their lives, any they avoided all other groups they encountered.

***

They came across orcs only once, while wandering near the troll shaws. Frodo was now seven, and knew enough to be scared when his uncle dragged him sideways into a ditch. Heavy feet plodded by, the only sounds heavy breathing and the clinking of weapons and mail. Then one gravelly voice spoke up. “I smell flesh,” it hissed, and Bilbo froze. He looked at Frodo, sure that his nephews look of exhausted horror was mirrored on his face. Sting rose from its resting position to sit against his nephew’s throat. Bilbo thought the situation was made worse by the fact that Frodo looked thankful for the threat. If they orcs discovered them, Frodo at least would be spared the horror of being eaten alive. Bilbo knew that he would not be so lucky. “It’s just the arm I saved for leftovers,” another orc rumbled, and there was the sound of a scuffle as raucous laughter rang above. The orcs moved on. The hobbits didn’t leave their shelter till long after nightfall. 

***

Rivendell was empty and ransacked. Bilbo could no longer stomach the scent of burning, and quickly moved them on.

***

They were nearing Frodo’s eighth birthday when they spotted the borders of Mirkwood. The journey had been exhausting, and much slower than he remembered with a small body along for the ride, but he finally felt like he was making progress. He never dared let himself think of what would happen if Erebor itself had fallen to the scourge. He didn’t want to think of what would happen if the dwarves themselves had fallen to hunger. In his spare moments, Bilbo almost hysterically thought how hilarious it was that hunger could drive them to what Sauron couldn’t. In these moments, he held Thorin in the forefront of his mind. The King Under the Mountain was far too honorable to fall to such evil. Bilbo couldn’t contemplate Thorin, or his bright smiling nephews, leaning against a wall deep in Erebor with their own swords dug into their stomachs without wanting to lay down and never get up.

***

He remembered the forest being depressing, but when the whole world was mirky, he guessed the trees kind of lost their atmosphere.

***

The worst part is that they see them coming. They’d broken the through the wall of Mirkwood to edge the River Celdwin, and were headed north to laketown, when a group of horses appeared on the horizon. The world around them was now flat and dead. There was nowhere to hide. Bilbo barely had time to turn in a burst of frenzied movement and send a terrified look at his nephew’s frightened face before they were surrounded, the horses moving in a blur of brown that disoriented Bilbo so that he never saw the first kick coming. He simply felt a burst of pain in his face, and heard Frodo’s anguished cry as he fell to the ground. Sting’s hilt was still clutched in his hand, and he tried to swing it up, but a heavy foot landed on his hand, snapping the bones in his fingers and palm. The pain sent him swimming away for a second, and when his hearing came back he heard “He might as well be dead before we eat him. Not much meat to either of them, so fun may be all we’ll get out of them.” The foot ground into his fist, and his vision blacked out. He thought it was only for a second, because he could still hear the hoots and hollers of the rest of the group and Frodo’s dry panting sobs when he came to. “Awake, tiny man?” the Man said, and then the knife work began. It was when he was flipped onto his stomach that he felt the familiar hilt against his hand. Frodo had begun screaming, and Bilbo felt all of his pain numb as he forced himself to his knees. Laughter rang around him, but Frodo was still screaming. Bilbo got to his feet. Sting sank into the man’s ribs before Bilbo was even aware of it, and then he was striking out wildly at the beasts that surrounded him. He was pretty sure he was screaming, because the noise blotted out all other sound. The horses fled, and their unwilling riders with them. Bilbo was left with three bodies (though he could only remember killing the one), and Frodo, who caught him as he collapsed. The last thing he saw before darkness took him was a set of big, watery blue eyes that reminded him nothing more than of his cousin Prim, tearing up on her wedding day as she stared up at her husband. He drifted off to dreams of his Shire, with plentiful yielding fields, fireworks and dancing. He no longer heard the wails of his nephew.

***

He came awake sometime later, drowsy and disoriented. Sting was no longer in his hand, and Frodo was not tucked in his usual place at his side. Hands braced on his torso, and only the tip of a knife touched his side before he flailed, knocking into what he was sure was his attackers face. More hands joined in, trying to hold him down, but Bilbo used every trick he knew, panic and terror for Frodo fueling his frantic movements. Everything was blurred and dizzying, and only the adrenaline made any sense. _Frodo_ , he thought, unaware that he was mouthing the name. _Frodo._ A familiar body wrapped around his, and he leaned down and scooped his nephew into his arms, murmuring unknowing comfort into his curls. He set the boy down only when his arms gave out, and noticed only _red red red_ before he tumbled back into the dark.

***

When Bilbo awakes, it is to a set of familiar faces, and after a moment of silence, he breaks down crying.

***

Weeks later, he is finally ready to get to his feet. Their healer pronounced him fit, and it was work to put one foot in front of the other. With Kili’s support, he left the healing rooms. Down the hall came Frodo, laughing as he chased other children. His innocent joy was nothing compared to the incandescent radiance that lit his face when he saw his uncle up and about.

***

Erebor was nothing like they’d dreamed when they’d first set out on their quest. Far from a thriving trade hub and marvelous kingdom, it instead resembled more the slums of Lake Town before the dragon burned it down. People filled every crevice of the halls, Man, Dwarf, Elf, and now Hobbit. Deep in the bowels of the mountain, a Wizard lay, unconscious. The healers say he may never wake up. 

The gold they had once prized beyond all else had been thrown from the mountain to make more space, and now decorated the outer slopes, creating a gaudy but magnificent display at sunrise and sunset. Regular patrols kept their borders clear, though leaving the mountain was not encouraged for anyone who wasn’t proficient with a weapon.

Frodo often wandered from Bilbo’s side to play with his fellow children, but here it was safe. He sometimes had to repeat that constantly to himself _he’s safe, he’s safe_ , to remind himself that he needn’t worry. That here there was no threat of being killed or eaten. Hunger was still a companion, but ingenious architecture allowed sunlight to reflect from the highest part of the peak down to select caverns filled with farms and cattle. Bilbo still couldn’t eat meat, nor could he sit while Thorin or the other Company members feasted on it. He always found himself wondering who they were eating before he reminded himself that didn’t happen here. _That you know of,_ his mind whispered. Bilbo silenced it, but sometimes he woke in a cold sweat and had to check through the remaining members of their Company, to make sure they hadn’t ended up on someone’s plate. These nights Thorin always returned to bed with him, curling around his body and anchoring him firmly in the present. The dreams had a hard time coming when they came face to face with the dwarf.

Bilbo mourned, constantly, for his life that had been, but there were rare moments when he forgot to remember. When Thorin groaned _Bilbo_ with such reverence that Bilbo was struck dumb with amazement, staring at the King’s beloved face. When Frodo pressed a light kiss to his cheek, pressing against his chest, and Bilbo felt the softness of his full belly against his side. When the remains of the Company gathered for a meal, and there was laughter and dancing that more than made up for the rationed food. 

Life wasn’t the same, and it wasn’t good. But it was getting better.


End file.
